


and they were roommates.

by Anonymous



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: (with each other at least), Confessions, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, I wrote this instead of studying, M/M, Other, Unnamed Reader, also there's tickling involved, genderless reader, y'all make out on the couch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You and Gordon are currently suffering every college student's worst nightmare: finals week. And, to top it all off, Gordon is a terrible distraction that you just so happen to have a crush on.(based on the prompt: "you’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you")





	and they were roommates.

**Author's Note:**

> this is (kind of) an au where international rescue doesn't exist. the boys are just regular people getting started on their dream careers and they don't spend their time rescuing people.
> 
> also, the "you" in this story is whoever you want it to be. it could be you, your oc, or whatever. they're unnamed and genderless, so go wild folks.

From the moment Gordon walked out of his bedroom in his squid shirt and flannel pajama pants, you knew you were royally fucked. He sported an adorable bedhead that screamed “I just woke up from a nap,” and a disoriented look on his face, toddling out of the hallway in a manner quite similar to the zombies he liked to shoot down with his brother, Alan. You cursed the universe for gifting you with a stupid crush on your damn roommate. And for good measure, you also cursed Gordon for looking so attractive (not that you were complaining).

“Good morning,” You say, eyeing his blurred figure through your holographic screen. “Did you have a nice nap?”

He grunts in response, moving into the kitchen behind you. Moments pass, littered with sounds of porcelain on porcelain and the coffee maker running. You raise your eyebrows—it was well after dinner, after all—but you choose not to say anything. You go back to the simulation of the depths of the Southern Ocean you have up on your screen, fiddling with the controls and attempting to identify the marine creatures that passed you by underneath your breath.

“That’s a sea spider, isn’t it? Pycnogonida.” He says, his shadow stretching over your shoulder as he gets a closer look. You freeze a little at his sudden closeness, suddenly very acutely aware of how fast your heart is beating. His closeness is not something you’re a stranger to—he is a very touchy person—but after realizing the more than platonic feelings you had for him, you feel a little awkward in his presence. Especially when in close proximity to him.

He whistles. “Look at that little guy go.”

“How long do you think his legs are?” You ask, in an attempt to maintain the friendly (and  _ not  _ romantic) rapport the two of you have built up as roommates.

He moves to squat next to your left arm to get a closer look. The smell wafting from his mug smells like one of the Keurig packets the two of you stockpiled on for finals. It takes him a minute to respond as you slowly turn the simulation to follow the sea spider around. “About three feet. Two, if you squinted hard and long enough.” He smiles a little, looking at you from out of the corner of his eyes. “What makes you so sure he’s a male, marine biology major?”

You roll your eyes. “Legs.”

“Didn’t know you were so into them.”

“Mm.”

Gordon gets up from beside you to sit on the couch, booting up his own screen and sipping his cup of coffee as he waits. The sounds in the kitchen, the smell from his mug, the thin stream of liquid that missed his mouth and is now dribbling down his chin… seems that your coffee hypothesis checks out.

He catches you staring at him before he takes another sip, and he winks. “Like what you see?”

The butterflies in your stomach flutter their wings against their cage, but you’re determined not to let your emotions show. You let out a long-suffering sigh and you point to his chin, not trusting your voice to function properly. He quickly gets the hint and sets his cup down, using the end of his shirt to wipe it away. The action causes his shirt to rise higher—seriously, did he  _ have _ to do everything so enticingly?—exposing his abdomen, sculpted by years of training and swimming. You swallow.

You return your attention to the screen with renewed determination, trying to get yourself to forget about the little bit of skin he showed and focus on the various flora and fauna that populate the sea floor. You mutter scientific names and common names and one interesting fact underneath your breath, thinking of nothing but his skin under the slick of his sweat on a hot summer day or the water that traces the planes of his body under the influence of gravity when he pulls himself out of a pool.

You don’t think of anything but his hands and how his calloused fingertips would feel on your skin. You don’t think of anything but his arms and his legs, watching the lean muscles rippling underneath the organ protecting them from the outside world as he leans forward to set his cup  down on the coffee table and presses some buttons on the hologram. Sometimes, you dream of his teeth on the column of your throat, sucking and biting and bruising your skin with a kiss.

You groan and throw your head back, sinking lower into the cushions of the couch and staring at the ceiling in defeat.

“What’s up?” He asks. You make an unintelligible noise in response. You speculate that one whole sentence was probably trying to come out in one word.

“Alright, then.” He says, equal parts incredulous and amused. He makes an unintelligible sound of his own and huffs out a laugh. You watch him, equal parts miserable and turned on—or maybe its 30-70?—from your rather uncomfortable position.

Maybe it’s because it’s already so late in the night. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent hours studying and your brain is fried, but the words “God, you make me want to kiss you” escape your lips before you can even register that you’ve said them. Immediately following that, your brain registers what you’ve said, and you realize that there was never a moment in time when you’ve wanted to die more. Perhaps in the fashion of being swallowed into the depths of the earth.

“You—you w-what?” He sputters, having paused mid-laugh to hear what you had to say. His fingers have stilled in going through the flashcards, screen paused on the definition of diurnal tides in his surprise.

You don’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on the screen before you and the marine life that float serenely across it. The ”distraction-that-is-trying-to-be-a-distraction” does not work. His golden hair shines like a beacon against the turquoise that flashes brilliantly in front of you.

To add to your ever so wonderful luck, the universe decides that now would be a great time for your distraction to die. You wonder if some higher power up there is having a lot of fun tormenting you today as the screen before you flickers once, twice, and doesn’t come back. You should’ve charged it when it alerted you that its battery was low. Now, you have nothing shielding you from Gordon and his now serious gaze.

“So... “ Your eyes dart around for something to say, something to do, something other than address the very stifling and large elephant in the room. “Uh, nice weather we’re having.”

He raises his eyebrows, as if to say _ seriously? _ You shrug as casually as you can manage, dropping your head and folding your hands over your lap, sheepishly twiddling with your fingers. You knew it was a terrible way to redirect the conversation, anyway. Well, at least you tried.

The two of you stew in the awkwardness for a good while, the silence broken only by the faint humming of the building and the occasional  _ ping _ of a notification coming from his own device. His gaze burns a hole into your head. You pick at your nails to resist the urge to scratch the invisible and very much imagined itch off the side of your forehead—the very place his eyes are burrowing into.

“Y’know,” he starts, brave enough to break the silence, “If you wanted to kiss me all you had to do was ask.”

Your head immediately snaps back to look at him. Desperately, you search his face for a sign of truth, trying to find a sign that he isn’t lying or joking around. You rake your eyes over the planes and curves of his face, searching for a twitch of a smile or the telltale gleam of mischief that were usually housed in the depths of his brown eyes. There is nothing.

“So…” He inches across the couch towards you. “Do… do you still want to?”

For a few moments, you can’t speak. Your mouth suddenly feels ridiculously dry. You’ve been dreaming of the feeling of his lips against yours for months. First, such thoughts came as little flickers of a “what if” situation when you spent time with him, brief flashes of a ghost of a feeling, easily brushed off with a particularly deliberate blink of your eyes. Then, they came as thoughts you actively started, in your daydreams, and in your dreams. Now you’re here, and you’re this close to getting those dreams realized. Did you really want this?

_ Yes _ , you tell yourself,  _ yes I do _ . Slowly, you nod.

He scoots closer to you, stopping when his hand is resting dangerously close to your thigh. He smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I…?”

“Mhm. Go ahead.”

He rests his hand on your thigh, giving it an experimental squeeze as he did so. You squirm away from his touch, holding back the reflexive giggle that’s threatening to burst from your lips. “Hey!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were ticklish?” His voice sounds kind, but the look in his eyes tells of his less than noble intentions. He squeezes again, and the laugh you were trying to hold back comes bubbling out. Experimentally, his fingers dance across your sides, and you squirm. The small smile on his face grows. You fear for your life.

“Gordon, no.”

“Gordon,  _ yes _ .”

Immediately, his fingers are everywhere. They’re on your thighs and your sides and your knees. At one point, they hit the side of your neck. As you soon learned from this experience, tilting your head to side did nothing to stop him. If anything, they just aided him in his endeavor, enabling him to race his fingers across the other side and across your collarbones.

You also learn that your clothes act poorly as armor. The flimsy material of your pajama pants provide little (if any) protection, and your shirt rises as you try and squirm away from his touch, exposing the sensitive skin on your stomach to his assault.

“Stop”—here, you burst into a fit of laughter as he concentrates on attacking your sides— “Please, please, please! I’ll—I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?”

“Yes—just—stop tickling me!”

And just like that, he lets go. You thank whatever is up there in the big blue sky for the moment of reprieve, gratefully gulping down lungfuls of air. You watch him watching you—specifically where his hands are, which, thankfully, are a safe distance away from the more ticklish areas of your body—and an idea creeps into your head.

Currently, Gordon hovers above your frame on the couch, supported by one hand on the armrest above your head, and the other on the backrest. There is a slight chance he’ll fall on you if you do decide to follow through with your plan, but you’ll take your chances to wipe off the victorious smile turning the corners of his mouth upward. He won’t even know what’s coming for him. Sucks for him to let down his guard.

Slowly, you drop your arm to retrieve a fallen throw pillow on the side of the couch. Once your fingers find purchase on its cotton material, you swing it as hard as you can against the side of his head. Then—as he is busy recovering from your pillow assault—you begin phase two, pressing your skittering fingers to his sides, mimicking his previous actions. You find a great sense of amusement in the surprised half-laugh-half-yelp that comes out of his mouth. Huh. No wonder he had so much fun doing this to you.

You sneak your fingers up his shirt, and— _ wow  _ those abs _ — _ run them up his ribs, trying to find any weak spot you could. You push and jab and press, eliciting multiple versions of gasping laughs before he gently swats your hands away from his person.

“Will you quit doing that?” He laughs, replacing his fingers to your hips, splayed against the bare skin of your stomach. They wander and they dance—and you admit it tickles a little—but his thumbs stay firmly rooted on your hips. “Or we’ll never get to this.” He says, adding a little squeeze for emphasis.

He leans towards you, and brushes his lips against yours, barely touching and barely there. You almost forgot what the two of you were doing in the first place. Now that you’re reminded of your prior intentions, your daydreams and dreams and fantasies come flooding to the forefront of your thoughts. You want the skin on skin contact. You want to feel him against you, to feel his warmth sink into your skin and everything beneath it. You lean forward to meet him. To your dismay, he moves away from you, hands sliding up to grip your waist to stop you from following.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides with a playful smirk, pushing you firmly against the couch cushions. You squirm in his hold, trying to find a comfortable position, and he clicks his tongue. “What do you say?”

“What is this,” you ask him with a quirked brow, lacing your fingers behind his neck in a futile attempt to bring him in, “your begging kink come to show itself?”

His brown eyes glint mischievously. “Maybe.”

You groan and try to bury yourself deeper into the couch. Why must he delay things so? Actually, why does he have to look so damn kissable  _ and  _ delay things at the same time? All you wanted was a stupid kiss and here he had to go and make everything much more complicated. You stare him down stolidly in response, hoping that the neutral face of disappointment you bear is enough message on its own.

“We don’t have all night, you know,” He says, chuckling at your reaction—the  _ nerve  _ of some people, honestly—when suddenly, a thoughtful expression washes over his features. “I’m starting to think you might not want to after all…”

You choke on the air that funnels into your lungs, and grasp his shoulders, eyes comically wide. “No!”

This makes him laugh harder. You whine his name in response, pouting a little bit as you try to bring him in even closer. To your surprise, he complies, but he’s still too far away to kiss.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He smiles at you, coming down from his boisterous fit of laughter. “You know I’d never leave you hanging.”

“But do I still have to beg?”

“Yes.”

You groan once more, but you surmise that doing so wouldn’t be that big of a cost. Oh dear, just the thought of doing it makes your face flush. Hopefully he doesn’t laugh too hard at your attempts. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, preparing yourself for what you’re about to do.

When you open them, you lock your gaze with his own, feeling the warmth in your cheeks come back in full force. Still, you bat your eyelashes as prettily as you can, hoping that whatever you’re doing made them flutter against your cheek  _ just _ so. Coyly—or at least, you think so—you look up at him from under your lashes. “Will you give me a kiss, Gordon?”

“Not quite,” he tells you, but to your delight, he doesn’t laugh  _ and _ he moves closer to you, stopping just an inch or so away from your face. The mischievous look in his eyes return as he asks you, “What’s the magic word?”

You bat your eyelashes once more. “Please?”

“Gladly.” 

He flashes you one of his winning smiles as he leans even closer. You watch as his tongue swipes his bottom lip, and your gaze flickers up to meet his eyes. Finally,  _ finally _ , he gives you what you ask for, and the ache housed in your chest from pining and pining for months on end flickers and dies. Your eyes flutter closed as you follow his lead, leaning forward to slant your lips more firmly to his own. 

His lips are soft, a bit chapped and tasting of coffee, pressing against yours with a startling fervor. He moves eagerly, taking your breath away with a simple sweep of his tongue across your lips. Much too happy to oblige, you let him in, welcoming his insistence and your desire as your arms lock around his neck, trying to pull him closer, to get rid of the already infinitesimal space between your bodies. You could stay like this forever—screw breathing, screw finals, and most importantly screw  _ anything  _ that didn’t immediately have anything to do with the right here and now—basking in the way his fingers wind into your hair and rest on your waist.

But all too soon, the moment ends. 

You break off for air, loosening the death grip of your arms around his neck to rest your hands on his shoulders. You smile when you meet his eyes. “Wow.”

“I didn’t think I was  _ that  _ amazing at kissing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You drum your fingers into his shoulder in admonishment, even if you very much agree with that statement.

“Sure, whatever you say.” He tells you, pushing himself up on the couch and taking you with him. You end up straddling his lap, mouth comically flapping open and closed as you tried to process the sudden flurry of movement you were subjected to. He does nothing but laugh gently and lean closer, the playful, cocky smirk he wears deepening. His nose nuzzles into your neck, the hum of his fading laughter tickling your skin.

“Was that really necessary?” Your breath hitches as he presses a kiss on the column of your throat. You feel him smile against you. 

“‘Course it was,” he says, voice still muffled against your neck. Your fingers tighten around his shoulders as his nose skims across your skin. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for ages.”

Somewhere, something inside you lets out a big breath of relief. It’s comforting to know you weren’t the only one who’s wanted this for a long time. Though he can’t see you, you smile fondly down at him, reaching a hand up to his hair, playing with the golden strands you come across. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

He hums in response, resuming the trail of kisses he was leaving on your skin. He starts exactly where he left off, suckling a kiss to the point where your neck meets your shoulder. You shudder and run your fingers through his hair. You sigh contentedly, looking down at the mess of golden hair and twinkling brown orbs that hover below your chin. “Kiss me again? Please?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “So now you want to beg?”

You sigh once more, settling into his hold. “With you, I just might.”

With a groan, his lips meet yours with a passion that leaves you dizzy, a hand traveling down to grip your waist once again, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. He’s oh so very warm—a wonderful contrast to the cold that nips at your skin—and it seeps through your skin and bones and settles inside you. His thumbs rub circles on you, rubbing swirling patterns of fire that sends shivers up your spine.

He asks for entrance, the tip of his tongue pressing against your lips. You don’t give it to him as easily as you did last time, and you keep them tightly closed with an imperceptible shake of your head. He lets out a frustrated sound, and you smile, amused. His eyes flutter open, and in retaliation, he pinches your behind. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to enter, ever persistent in his ministrations.

You pout—and you’re a little miffed that you were forced to give in so easily—but,  _ god _ , is it everything you ever wanted. His hands are up your shirt and on your back pushing you against him, and you feel his body is against yours. Your fingers roam, taking note of every crack and crevice you come across. The ripple of his biceps with every push and pull of his arms. The rise of his collarbone. The juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. The line of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. 

The two of you break off again for air, smiling like fools and grade schoolers with a crush reciprocated. You run a thumb across his cheek, resting your forehead against his. He squeezes your waist in return, leaning forward to kiss the corner of your upturned mouth. For the second time that night, the two of you bask in the silence.

Studying for your marine biology final could definitely wait until later.


End file.
